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Flint Hills

By John I. Blair

Standing on a hilltop near Wonsevu
I can imagine what my great-grandfather saw
Riding long ago into a prairie paradise.
For this rock-ribbed land was never really tamed,
Never torn asunder, never plowed under.
Here the grass still rolls green across the horizon
And after rains water everywhere seeps,
Trickles and flows like life's blood.
Even in July, when south winds scorch
And cattle mob the ponds to slake their thirst,
The water still is there, below in the flinty stone,
The everlasting heart of all these verdant hills.
It takes a special kind of toughness
To survive some sorts of love.

(c)2002 John I. Blair


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